


A Hidden Letter

by lookingforatardis



Series: The Blank Years [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, POV First Person, The Blank Years, oliver is married and they dont talk anymore but nothing is ok, probably anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 10:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13269246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: I found the crumpled letter a few months ago. He didn't know. The greeting was haunting; Dear Elio, it read. At first, I thought it was something he never sent. Then, confused, I realized it wasn't his letter at all; the handwriting was far too quick and earnest for it to be Oliver's[From Oliver's wife's pov upon finding a well-read letter in Oliver's desk] Part of a series of fics from the time where Elio and Oliver have no direct contact, otherwise known as The Blank Years.





	A Hidden Letter

**Author's Note:**

> 2 years of scattered contact, 11 years total until he calls, Oliver's kids are 8 and 6 then.  
> At three years: one son born  
> At five years: older son age 2, pregnant/second son is born  
> That's right, I looked to the source material to get these years right, here at lookingforatardis i do research lol

I wake before Oliver, carefully twisting in his arms so I can look up at him. He was so peaceful when he slept, as if he were as old as he was when I met him years ago. I reach up and toy with the hair falling into his face to push it back. He sighs. I wish I could capture this moment and save it, show it to him when we weren't talking, let him see that he was happy with me in his arms.

He never wanted to talk about what happened in Italy. It had been five years and he still hadn't told me what happened, but I always knew it was Italy that held his thoughts when he picked fights or fidgeted with the buttons on his shirts. It had changed him, visibly, right from the start. It hurt that he wouldn't share that pain with me, that he kept that summer hidden for only himself. Every time I asked about it, he'd close himself off and talk about the work he did, the research, the writing, sometimes even letting me hear stories of his mentor of the time—Perlman. That was usually all I ever got before he changed the subject, walked away, or we fought. I'd grown tired of being told to _drop it_ years ago and stopped trying. I'd wait for him to get that look in his eyes, rarer now that it was at first, and then ask, hoping he'd be vulnerable enough and trust me enough with whatever happened.

He told me one nigh right after our first son was born that he had been with someone that summer. He said that he didn't want to talk about it because it wasn't important anymore, and that he didn't want me to think about him with someone else. That was all I knew, that there had been _someone_. I assumed he fell in love, I wasn't sure why he'd hide it otherwise. At the time, we were sort of on a break and that was probably why he kept it hidden. He didn’t want to hurt me, which to an extent I appreciated. When he returned to Italy for that Christmas, he didn't speak to me for nearly a week after returning. I thought that was it for sure, my fiancé, leaving me to go into the new year alone. When he showed up at my door with flowers on New Year’s Eve, I almost turned him away. He told me it was strange to go back, that he needed time to recover. Since I didn't know what had happened back then, I was forced to accept his words. We never spoke of it again, and we married not long after.

I saw the letters and postcards he carefully tucked into his pockets on occasion, placing the rest of the mail on the kitchen counter, saying _It's the Perlman's_ with a kiss on my cheek every time I asked.

It never occurred to me.

I found the crumpled letter a few months ago. He didn't know.

The greeting was haunting; _Dear Elio_ , it read. At first, I thought it was something he never sent. Then, confused, I realized it wasn't his letter at all; the handwriting was far too quick and earnest for it to be Oliver's, meaning he had held onto a letter from another to another for years, dated a week before we married. I put it back in this desk where I found it, uncertain of what to make of it, if anything. As the days passed, however, I grew more curious. I couldn't help myself, who was this Elio? One night, after raiding the fridge in a pregnancy haze, I wandered to his office and held the letter in my hands once more, finding it under a few files. I sat at his couch and unfolded it. I turned the pages over, looking to the back for a signature of some kind, and froze.

_Later,_

_Oliver._

I sat there with it in my lap, the unfamiliar handwriting staring at me, my husband's casual catchphrase and name tempting me to read, to understand, to seek answers in the pages. I read it quickly at first, then slowly once I realized what it was. Elio. The summer fling.

It began making sense, all of it. The lost eyes and the hiding, the telling me not to worry. It wasn't a woman, it was a _man_ , and he had loved him in a way I couldn’t comprehend.

_I hate knowing that there is nothing I can do but say congratulations. You'll be married by the time this reaches you, probably back from your honeymoon. I hope she makes you happy._ The words were painful to read. I had wondered if there were more somewhere, if he had letters stashed in every place he held dear, the places I rarely wandered, where our son couldn't reach. I wondered how many ink stained moments of emotional infidelity occurred since he said _I do._ I felt sick, rereading the letter, knowing I would never read it again; I only permitted this one night to cure my curiosity and then I decidedly would leave his secret alone, a promise I had kept in the time since then. He made his choice, I told myself, and it had been me. No matter what the letter said, no matter how many of them there were, he stayed with me.

It was easy to hide my discomfort the days after reading the boy's letter; Oliver had assumed it was the pregnancy making me emotional which I encouraged him to believe, thinking to myself that perhaps it had been a factor. It was there in the back of my mind when his thoughts seemed to wander or when he was working late in his office, but then he'd return to me and kiss my belly, or carry our son to bed, and I knew that if he really wanted to leave he would have done it years ago. It was only six weeks that he had been with _him_. How could that possible hold up to what we had now?

I told myself all these things for the umpteenth time as I watched Oliver wake up before me, seeing me staring and immediately hiding his face. "Happy birthday," I whisper, touching his jaw. He groans and takes a deep breath, finally looking at me and giving me a small smile.

"Thank you," he mumbles, rolling onto his back, one hand resting on his chest, the other toying with the star of David around his neck. "Another year," he says quietly. I touch his face and turn it towards me, a small smile touching his lips. "I'm getting old," he jokes.

I shake my head and laugh. I place a hand over his, stilling his fidgeting fingers tangled in the necklace and he closes his eyes and sighs. I know I should go tend to our son to see if he was awake, but something held me here to this moment. It felt as though if I left him now, that look would creep up into his eyes and I couldn't bear the thought of it. I stayed for a while longer, stayed until he left the bed to shower for the day, stayed until I realized that no matter what I did or how much time had passed, I would never, _never,_ be able to stop that summer from haunting him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love doing first person pov because you have to change your style to get different voices right, and this was so interesting to do after writing Elio. I hope you enjoyed it, let me know what you think :) I might do a little fic of Elio writing this letter because I have a lot of feelings today apparently.


End file.
